June 1 will always be a mixed bag for me. Like a bully looming at the edge of the playground of my month, I know I have to take the path that leads in his direction and somehow face him. May was draining for me in that respect, full of dread for a date that forever changed me: ending one life I loved and shoved me down the craggy path of another.

“Be kind to yourself” was some advice my friend Claire gave to me in the month’s after Ken’s death. And I never forgot those words. I gave myself permission to feel whatever I felt on June 1. I told myself it would be okay if he wasn’t the first thing I thought of when I woke that morning. Prostration is not my style, and like last year, I chose to look at the day as a chance not to celebrate the anniversary of his death, but to celebrate him and all the love in his life–which continues in mine.

My day began with a visit to the Lincoln Park Conservatory with my friend Kim, who along with my brother- and mother-in-law were with me Ken when he left us–a profound bond that connects us inextricably. Ken introduced me to the conservatory (much like he did with Garfield Park) early on in our relationship. After his surgery in January 2010, Lincoln Park became the preferred destination because of its location closer to our apartment.

My private moments proved to be rife with flashes of Ken. Our whole life together. And ones of him toward the end of his life. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, but the emotional stain of June 1 magnifies every thought, emotion and memory. But it also magnifies the good things. Facebook, emails and texts from friends and family helped to remind me I wasn’t alone in missing Ken, nor was I the only one observing the occasion, remembering him and loving him.

The trick is that June 1 is never as scary as it threatens to be. The treat is that I’m reminded of not just how much Ken is missed by so many people, but how much he is loved by so many, as well. It’s what I remember so well about the last days of his life (and very little else) and of the weeks following his death: the unity of love and support and loss I felt from so many people. He inspired big feelings. Big actions. He still does.

I spent the rest of the day with Kathy, my best friend of some twenty years. We sipped a few cocktails, reminisced about Ken and talked the evening away about the full spectrum of topics that currently pepper our full plates. This important evening was appropriately punctuated with a phone call to my in-law family in California–who were all together–to see how they were weathering the day. I was happy to hear they were all doing well, and taking great comfort in being together. I’m ever grateful for my universe of family and friends.

It’s still quite a perplexing journey to navigate: he’s gone. But he’s not. I can’t touch him. But he still touches me–the lives of all of those who loved him with seeming regularity. He was an enriching ingredient to all of our lives, planting seeds of action and creation. I love that.

May is over, and the bully of June 1 was more mirage than menace.